


Pranged!

by clgfanfic



Category: Tour of Duty (1987), War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul ends up on an assignment with the LT and Zeke</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pranged!

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #10 and later in Black Ops#1 under the pen name Gillian Holt and Laura Grigsby.

Captain Paul Ironhorse leaned back against the vibrating side of the Huey and allowed himself to take a deep breath.  That was the last time he ever trusted Johnson and Haddison when they said he'd be going on a milk-run recon mission.  Granted, someone had to do it, and he and his backup squad's lieutenant were the best choices. After all, if they were going to take their men in, then it was a good idea for them to have a clear idea about where the insertion and extraction LZs were.

Haddison's last words were: "It's a simple recon, gentlemen.  Fly out, look it over and fly home, then we'll talk."

"Simple my ass," Ironhorse mumbled.  If you define simple as full of VC, despite what their intelligence reports had told them.

Not that it was the General's fault.  Haddison had given Paul and Myron all the information he had.  It was just bad information.

If they were going to pull this mission off, they were going to have to find another point of entry.  Mr. Charles was _not_ going to let them go strolling through this field of tulips without blowing their asses off.

Glancing out the open hatch, Ironhorse watched the sun slip behind the foothills. The light still reflected off the trees and shrubbery growing up the slopes of Tay Ninh Mountain, creating an eerie halo effect that was fast fading with the coming of darkness.

He glanced down at his watch.  They would be back at Tan Son Nhut before too long, and he was ready for a hot shower, a cold drink and a long, intimate date with a clean sheet.  He glanced up.  The two men seated across from him looked like they were contemplating the same series of indulgences.

Lieutenant Myron Goldman grinned, pointing to his watch, then miming a long swallow of cold beer.  On his left, Sergeant Zeke Anderson laughed, the sound remaining hidden in the engine noise.  Paul nodded and grinned.

"Who's buying?" Anderson managed to yell over the rotor wash.

Anderson and Ironhorse promptly pointed at each other, then the Lieutenant tapped his silver bar and nodded at Paul's tracks.  As ranking officer Ironhorse would buy the first round.

Ironhorse nodded his agreement.  Myron held up two fingers, signaling his agreement to cover the second round.  They both looked at Anderson, who held up three fingers… then four… then five, grinning.

They laughed.  _That date with the sheet might have to wait a few hours at this rate_ , Ironhorse thought.

The relaxed mood was shattered a moment later by the sharp pings of bullets ricocheting off the Huey.  The three soldiers scrambled into action, Anderson immediately diving to help the door gunner, who had already opened up on the foliage below, his big M-60 rattling loudly.

The chopper banked away, but pitched back sharply, throwing the men off balance.  Ironhorse rolled, colliding with the wall of the Huey, still clutching his M-16.  He reached for a handhold, the helicopter dipping forward and down.  The engine barked, then whined as it choked out.

"We're goin' down!" Anderson yelled.

The Huey's fall lasted an instantaneous eternity, the trees slowing their descent minutely just before impact.  A heartbeat later they slammed into the dirt, bounced and hit a second time.

Ironhorse was thrown free, and was gratefully aware that he'd managed to hold onto his weapon.  He slapped into the ground and slid to stop.  Lying still, he tried to decide if he was alive or dead.

No choirs of angels, no chants from his ancestors.  Possibilities exhausted, he opened his eyes.

Definitely alive.  Making his way to his feet, he did a quick survey of the surroundings, then an equally fast assessment of his situation.  SNAFU.

At least he didn't appear to be injured.

He headed for the chopper at a quick jog.  What was left of the crumpled craft lay on its side, most of the cockpit torn away and scattered across several yards of the hillside.  He saw the blood and torn flesh.  The pilot was dead.  He jogged to the far side and found the gunner, his body nearly severed in half from the Huey bouncing on him.

Anderson and Goldman were both sprawled on the dusty ground, motionless. Ironhorse headed for them, his gaze sweeping the trees.  Mr. Charles knew they were in his AO, and with just the three of them…  It was time to get out.  Now.

"Anderson," Ironhorse said, turning the sergeant over.

Goldman's first-shirt groaned and opened his eyes.  "Leg," he groaned.

Ironhorse looked down and saw the blood already soaking into the dust.  Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a dressing and wrapped the tear, tying it down as tight as he could.  "Looks like you're going to need a little needlepoint done when we get back to camp."

Anderson ground his jaws together, but didn't say anything.

Goldman stirred, sitting up and blinking dazedly.  "Hell of a landing," he mumbled.  "So much for that shower, steak and beer."

Anderson sucked in a gasp as he tried to stand.  Ironhorse helped him up and the sergeant hobbled over to the chopper to salvage their weapons and the field radio.

"I think I'm all right," Goldman said.

Ironhorse held out a hand, catching Myron's and starting to pull him to his feet, but a strangled half-scream released his fingers.  "I don't think so."

"Damn," Goldman breathed, his face going pale.

Kneeling behind the man, Ironhorse examined him, looking for blood.  There was none.  He reached out, probing for broken bones.  When he pressed along the collarbone Goldman sucked in a breath.

Paul pulled the lieutenant's shirt back.  No break, but from the look of the bruise already forming, something was dislocated.

"What is it?"

"Dislocated shoulder," Ironhorse said.  "I think."

Anderson returned, handing Goldman an M-16 and Ironhorse the radio.  Together they helped Myron to his feet and made their way over to a cleft between two rocky outcrops.

"Think the pilot got off a mayday?" the sergeant asked, his eyes scanning the area.

"I hope so," Ironhorse said, removing and turning on the radio.  "Charlie knows we're here.  Let's just hope he's not too close."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The Forward Air Controller pushed his airplane through the late evening twilight. The steady drone of the propeller almost lulled him to sleep, but he fought it off, reaching down to find the beer bottle he'd filled with lime-flavored water.  He took a sip.

Activity was picking up.  Several forays had been made into the area and the brass had kept him busy, sighting targets and calling in the fighters.  He and every other FAC in Three Corp was either up in the air, or passed out on a cot near their planes so they could be up and in the air within minutes of the maintenance and refueling.  He yawned. Rumors were the activity was a cover for activity on the other side of the fence. It didn't really matter.  Another month and he'd be short.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  If he wasn't in the middle of a war, he might have enjoyed the scenery around Tay Ninh Mountain more, but as it was, he looked forward to getting back to base and sleeping for as long as he could.

He scanned the landscape automatically, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing.

 _Charlie's probably eating supper_ , he thought, reminding himself to remember to grab something before finding his cot.

The radio crackled, and he reached out, twisting the knob to locate the frequency.

"Repeat, this is Tango-Oscar-Foxtrot, we're hit and going in.  Southeast side of Tay Ninh Mountain.  Over."

He reached for the mike to reply.

"This is—"

The abrupt end to the message didn't bode well for the pilot and his passengers.  The observer kicked up the speed and headed for the location.

Climbing over a small hill, he saw the Huey waggle as the pilot fought to keep it under control.  He couldn't see the damage, but whatever it was, it was serious, given the amount of black smoke that spilled out just below the rotors.

Before he could reach the base of the mountain, the craft crashed, but there was no explosion.

He depressed the mike.  "Homebase, this is Cobra Seven, do you copy?  Over."

"Roger Cobra Seven, read you Lima Charlie.  Over."

"Homebase, I've got a slick down on southeast side of the old man."

"Roger, we have a jolly green on standby.  Any survivors?  Over."

"Don't know, Homebase.  Check Tango-Oscar-Foxtrot.  Cobra Seven, out."

A moment later, the voice returned.  "Roger.  Jolly green giant's on the way."

He flew over the site, catching sight of the wreckage.  Still no smoke.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The sound of brush breaking sounded around the three men.  Somebody was running in high gear down the side of the hills, moving directly for their perimeter.  They were making no effort to be quiet, and from the sound, it could have been five to ten of them.

Ironhorse heard the snap-click-snap of the selector switches being thumbed to full-automatic, his included.  The crashing sounds were getting closer, then they were gone.

"They'll try to flank us," Anderson said softly.

"I'll check it out," Ironhorse said.  He eased out of the cover, inching into the bush.

The running started again and Ironhorse rose into a crouch to get a better view.  There he was, fifteen feet away in a dead sprint…  Mr. Charles.

Ironhorse felt the shift as he moved into the slowed perceptions of combat.  The VC was still coming, but in slow motion.  Paul looked into the man's eyes, wide with surprise at the sudden recognition of danger.  He knew he was about to die.  The determined look on his face changed from excitement to shock, to fear, and then resolve, all in the space of a second.

Despite the surprise, he had the presence of mind to level the AK-47 he carried and fire a long burst in Ironhorse's direction even as Paul's own burst caught him full in the chest.

Ironhorse dove to avoid the burst and moved back to Goldman and Anderson.

"I think we interrupted Charlie's supper?" Zeke asked.

"It's definitely VC," Ironhorse replied.  "I can't get a good read on how many."  He took up the radio again, saying, "I'm guessing, but I'd say somewhere between ten and twenty."

"Great," Goldman said, then reached out and silenced Ironhorse.  "Hear that? That's not Charlie."

Paul shook his head.  "FAC."  He cranked the radio.  "Mayday, mayday, do you copy?"

"This is Cobra Seven, I copy mayday Lima Charlie, Tango-Oscar-Foxtrot."

"There's three of us alive here, and bad guys all around.  Think someone can pull our sorry asses out?"

"Roger, Tango-Oscar-Foxtrot.  Jolly Green is on the way."

"Tell him to hurry."  Paul shoved the radio back into the unit just as the VC opened fire.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The FAC swung over the site.  He had planned to keep going so not to give away the position of the three survivors, but there was no need.  The man on the ground was right, there were VC already moving in on them.

"Cobra Seven to Jolly Green, what's your ETA, over?"

"Cobra Seven, we'll be at your location in ten, twelve minutes.  Over."

There was no way those three men were going to last that long.  He took a deep breath and checked his rockets.  Two racks of willie pete's.  It would just have to do.

"Tango-Oscar-Foxtrot, this is Cobra Seven.  I'm gonna deliver a load of Willie Peter to your visitors.  Can you pop smoke?"

"Roger that."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

The three men pressed into the small cleft that gave them some protection from the fire they were taking.  Ironhorse shoved the receiver down, fired and said, "He's got some willie pete's, but he needs smoke."

Anderson grabbed for the gun and selected a green, hoping that the lighter color would be visible in the gathering darkness.

"Got green."

The captain fired and again, then keyed the set.  "Popping green."

"Roger, green."

Anderson fired off the round, the flare breaking open.  Ironhorse knew that it was marking their position for the VC as well, but from the fire pouring in, Charlie already knew where they were.  With just a handful of ammo, twelve grenades and their side arms, they were not equipped to stop an assault.  The FAC might be able to lend them a hand, at least until he was out of rockets.

There was movement to the left and Ironhorse and Anderson responded, firing into the trees.  A scream echoed out in reply.  Goldman fired around the edge of the cover, squeezing off several bursts before dropping back.

"They're moving in."

The grind of the plane's propeller grew louder, and the threesome pressed into the small space, waiting for the explosion they knew was coming.

With a bang the first rocket hit just short of the chopper, the white phosphorus catching and spreading over the Huey and the surrounding area, burning with an unearthly blue-white brightness.  A billow of white smoke rose into the darkening sky.  A second explosion followed on the heels of the first, this time the Huey's fuel tank igniting and the chopper went up, sending shrapnel slicing through the trees.

They heard screams, smelled the stench of burning flesh and knew that at least one of their attackers had been dusted by the burning chemical.

The firing stopped and what noise they could hear over the burning wreckage seemed to suggest that Charlie was backing off.  Ironhorse hazarded a look, squinting against the flames.

"Well?" Goldman asked.

"Looks like he turned them back."

"For the moment," Anderson added.  "Look."  He nodded to their exposed flank.  Dark shadows were already working their way closer.

"Let's just hope he saw them," Goldman said as the three maneuvered to cover themselves better.

"I think he did," was Anderson's reply as a buzz passed over them.

They could hear the sucking pop as two more rockets were released.  A few seconds later the night was shattered into burning daylight.

"Chopper," Ironhorse said, firing at the retreating figures.

"Don't think he'll have trouble spotting us," was the sergeant's dry reply.

"We go in staggered intervals," Ironhorse instructed.  "Anderson first, then you," he told Goldman.

The bulk of the fire they had been taking shifted to the FAC as he passed overhead again, keeping Charlie's attention on the sky instead of the men on the ground.  Goldman nodded to the tracer flashes from his M-16 as the pilot fired out the window.

The small prop plane rolled and swung back for another run as the large and heavily armed chopper edged in closer.

 _They must've extracted a downed pilot earlier_ , Ironhorse realized, or a standard Huey would have come for them.  At this point he wasn't particular; he just wanted out of there, and the sooner the better.

The FAC swept by again, so low Ironhorse had to fight the urge to duck.  The M-16 pounded out a hail of death while the VC returned fire, their tracers wrapping around the plane.

"That guy's nuts!" Goldman breathed.

"Yeah, but my kind of nuts, LT," Zeke replied.

"He's holding them off.  Now!" Ironhorse yelled, slapping the sergeant on the back as the chopper dropped in.

Anderson bolted from cover, heading straight for the hovering chopper as fast as he could.

"Go!" Paul commanded Goldman and the Lieutenant followed, weaving to avoid the tracers that followed him.

Ironhorse counted to three, then bolted after Goldman.  He saw Anderson reach the chopper, the crewmen dragging him in.  Goldman dove into the open hatch and the pilot edged the chopper closer to Ironhorse.  Following Goldman's example Paul dove, his belly hitting with a dull thwack on the metal floor of the chopper.  He scrambled around, moving with the two men and the gunner to watch the FAC make his final pass.

"RPG!" Ironhorse yelled, slapping the gunner and pointing.

The corporal opened fire, but it was too late, the puff of smoke told them that the man had fired, and they knew he had the range.

They watched in horror as the FAC banked, trying to move out of the way.  The grenade exploded beneath the wing.  The plane stalled, flames flashing across the nose, then crashed, already engulfed in flames.

"No!"

The collective cry was drowned out as the pilot goosed his chopper and sent them hurtling off toward Tay Ninh.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

Ironhorse sat in the bar at Tan Son Nhut, nursing a beer.  Goldman sat, leaning on the table across from him, a glass of scotch still half full.  Neither bothered looking up when the screen door creaked open and several men entered.

Anderson joined them, sliding into the third and empty chair.

"That guy was a hero," Myron slurred.

"Yep," Ironhorse stated, his gaze never leaving the dead fly lying on the table.

"And I've found a way to make sure everyone knows," Anderson announced loudly, adding, "sirs."

"Zeke, what're you talking about?" Goldman asked.  "We don't even know his name."

Anderson shrugged.  "Listen."  He turned in his chair and waved.  "Derriman, Purcell, come over here."

The two men walked over carrying chairs, Purcell also carrying a guitar.

"Anderson, what's this all about?" Goldman demanded, then finished the last of his scotch in a single gulp.

"We're gonna make sure that everyone knows what that FAC did."

Ironhorse nodded.  "Songs are sacred."

Goldman snorted.  "Paul, you're being Indian."

"I _am_ Indian."

Anderson took out a piece of blank paper and unfolded it on the table, then pulled out a pencil.

Goldman sat up straighter and scooped up his empty glass.  He looked around the room, then blinked three times, trying to make them all come back into focus.  "Fill your mugs and glasses," he called out, abruptly capturing the attention of the people there.

Anderson scribbled, then added quickly, "And we'll sing to you a song…"

A lopsided smile formed on Ironhorse's face.  "About a FAC called Cobra Seven… and his fight against the Cong."

          The men cheered, and the threesome continued…

 

_Fill your mugs and glasses, and I'll sing to you a song_

_about a FAC called Cobra Seven, and his fight against the Cong._

_We worked Three Corp together, we worked it night and day,_

_from the dusty strip at Chu Chi, to the main street at Song Be._

_He was flying late one evening round the mountain near Tay Ninh,_

_when he heard the choppers may-day, "We're hit and going in."_

_At the base of Tay Ninh Mountain, he saw the Huey fall —_

_started for the crash site, and made a may-day call._

_He heard the voice on guard then, a survivor on the ground:_

_"There's three of us alive here, and bad guys all around."_

_As he looked down at the clearing, saw the VC all about._

_Help was on the way now, but time was running out._

_He armed his Willie Peter; he still had two full racks —_

_hosed two off at the VC, and stopped them in their tracks._

_Then he saw the Cong regrouping, and once more moving in,_

_fired his last two rockets, and turned them back again._

_A Huey out of Tay Ninh then arrived upon the scene._

_To cover for the rescue, he grabbed his M-16._

_He was firin' out the window, flying low across the trees_

_with the bullets swarming round him, like a hive of deadly bees._

_The friendlies watched in wonder at this pilot bold and brave_

_one man holding back twenty, while the Huey made the save._

_As they climbed on board the chopper, saw the VC find the range_

_and they cried for Cobra Seven, as he went down in flames._

_In the dusty heat at Three Corp, when the Army's long day ends_

_they speak in silent voices of the FAC who saved their friends._

_From Lai Dao up to Bu Dop, from Chu Chi to Phouc Long_

_they remember Cobra Seven, and his fight against the Cong. **[1]**_

 

  


* * *

[1]   "Cobra Seven" was written by Vietnam vet Toby Hughes, and is on the tape _In-Country: Folk Songs of Americans in the Vietnam War_. The following is from the liner notes about the song.  "Forward air controllers were the airborne directors of air strikes against ground targets; they spotted targets and then helped attacking aircraft locate them.  Flying low and slow in their tiny planes, the FAC's were the eyes and ears of the fighter pilots."


End file.
